


the ghost of summerhall

by lannisters



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen Live, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, F/M, Family Feels, Female Friendship, Female Protagonist, Gen, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Lord Stoneheart, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prophetic Dreams, Robb Lives, Romance, Season 7 and 8 re-write, Temporary Amnesia, The War for the Dawn, d&d are the true enemy don't forget, mix of book and show canon, no character bashing so please don't come here expecting that okay, spoiler alert: the Long Night lasts more than a night
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-18 11:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20638274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannisters/pseuds/lannisters
Summary: The world believed them to be dead, murdered along with their mother, but Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen survived the sacking of King's Landing and were raised in secret. When they return to Westeros to take back what was stolen from them, Rhaenys discovers that they are not the only lost souls searching for some justice in the world. . .





	1. prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, this fic was meant to be a one-shot that grew legs and kinda got away from me...
> 
> it was inspired by this video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YEd3Fg6yXkw) because bruna marquezine is an AMAZING rhaenys fancast and robb/rhaenys is the crackship i never knew i needed. this fic is also a chance for me to re-write GOT season 7/8 how i would've liked it - with "young griff" (aka aegon, for those who haven't read the books), rhaenys, no character assassination for the sake of ??? (d&d explain!), the long night lasting more than a couple of hours ... and so on. needless to say, if you thought season 8 was great you're probably not going to like this or my saltiness.
> 
> also, for the sake of nonbook readers, catelyn was resurrected in the books and became known as lady stoneheart. in this, it was robb whose body was thrown in the river (also greywind ran off and is okay because i can't handle dead direwolves okay) and was resurrected. he doesn't follow the lady stoneheart storyline exactly - i'll make that clear as the story goes on :)
> 
> this is mostly going to follow the show canon, with bits of the books sprinkled in. such as - i absolutely abhor how the show handled dorne and have deleted it from my memory. so the dornish are more like their book counterparts (so the sand snakes aren't terrible, ellaria doesn't poison innocent girls, doran is alive, arianne exists etc).
> 
> also, so this fic starts at the beginning of show canon!season 7 but the Aegon and the Golden Company landing on the Storm Coast was taken from a Dance with Dragons and exerts from the Winds of Winter, just in case anyone gets confused. the timeline of this fic is a mess and a frankstein's monster of book + show canon, so if you have any questions please let me know
> 
> sorry for the rambling, i just have a lot of thoughts and i'm terrible at organising!
> 
> hope you enjoy! this is my first foray into this fandom, so please let me know what you think :) :)

When Rhaenys was a child, her father used to sing her to sleep.

She remembered the last song he ever sang to her before he left and never returned. He called it a song of ice and fire. She remembered the song as being sad, even if the words were beautiful. When she asked him what the song had been about, Rhaegar had smiled.

_ “It is about you, sweet one. You and your brother. But there must be one more. One day you will understand.” _

She remembered his words. Yet, with every year that passed, she still did not understand.

Rhaenys had loved her father. She had cried for days after he left. She had taken to sleeping in his bed with little Balerion in her arms, wishing and praying to the Gods that he would come home soon. But time was a funny thing to a child, and every day her father was gone felt like a lifetime. By the time word reached them that Rhaegar had been defeated, her mother was dead and the grief over losing her mother eclipsed the pain of her father's abandonment.

And for all the world knew, Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen were dead. Slaughtered with their mother in the keep they’d grown up in; a red ruin for the Usurper to build his reign upon.

Rhaenys sometimes wondered what had been going through her mother’s head in the days leading up to her death. She wondered if Elia had known what was coming. If even the smallest part of her had suspected. She wondered why she had allowed the Spider to spirit her children away to safety without her. She wondered if the Spider had given her a choice. Or if he had stolen her children and left her to her fate. Rhaenys wasn’t sure which option she preferred. . .

Rhaenys had heard many things about her mother throughout her life, from those who had known and loved her. She clung to every memory she had of the woman she had never been able to know. Just as she listened to every story in the hope of someday being able to understand the woman who had almost died to give life to her and her brother. The same woman who had died alone, with no one left to help her, at the hands of monsters covered in the blood of someone else’s children. 

From everything she had learned over the years, her mother had been warm and kind. She had been a good woman, whose gentle heart endeared her to those who were fortunate enough to know her. _ Never had an unkind word for anyone, _Oberyn always used to say, with the same far-away look in his eyes.

In a way, it was almost sad what the memory of her mother inspired people to do.

Rhaenys had tried, for a long time, to think of her mother without remembering the way she had died. She tried to recall her beautiful smile, her gentle hands as they braided her hair, and the softness of her voice as she whispered bedtime stories about the heroes of old without it being tainted by the _savagery _of her death.

But she couldn’t think of the sweet sound of her mother’s laugh without wondering how she must have screamed - how she must have wept - how she must have begged for mercy -

Aegon was almost lucky, to have been so young that he had no memory of their parents. He didn’t have a handful of precious, sunlit memories, slowly fading with time, to associate with the mother and father they had lost. He knew what had happened to their mother, felt the pain of it burn in his breast the same as hers, but he couldn’t imagine it. Not truly. 

He didn’t remember Maegar’s Holdfast; he had no memories of playing hide and seek with Viserys in the same room where their mother was beaten, and raped, and murdered.

Elia Martell was a memory, a ghost that she feared she might never be free of. 

_Vengeance_, Rhaenys thought as she looked across the turbulent sea. Perhaps that was how she would finally lay the ghost of her mother to rest.

Vengeance. 

Justice.

Fire and blood.

~*~

“When they write the history of your brother’s mighty reign, they will say that it began today.” Magister Illyrio proclaimed as he helped her off of the rowboat and onto the dry sand beach. The Magister was prone to grand, lofty speeches, but on this day, for once, Rhaenys found herself in agreement with him. It was difficult not to feel hopeful as she stood on the shores of her homeland for the first time in years with an army at her back.

Here, on Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, was where her brother’s reign would truly begin.

Rhaenys and her brother had both been born here, just Daenerys, and their grandfather, and so many Targaryens before them. Here, their mother had given life to them. Here, they would finally shake off the false identities that had kept them safe all throughout their years in hiding. 

The world would finally learn the truth - that Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen, the children of Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen, were alive. 

And they would never live in fear again.

“Welcome home, princess.” Ser Rolly said as he came to stand beside her. 

_ Princess_, Rhaenys thought. No one had called her that in a very long time. She had almost forgotten what it was like.

Ser Rolly’s hand, she noticed, was resting on the hilt of his sword. Out of habit, she assumed. There was no danger here. Whatever was left of Stannis Baratheon’s household or whichever Lannister lackey had taken up residence here cleared out long ago. The keep was empty; it was theirs for the taking. 

The sand was dark, darker than the pale white and gold shorelines of Dorne and Essos. The water wasn’t crystalline blue, still and tranquil, but turbulent and grey. The waves bashed against the granite rock with a fury. No trees could be planted here, no crops. The winds were too strong, the ground too infertile. 

But Rhaenys was not here to plants trees. She was not here to make a home.

This was only the beginning.


	2. interlude: arya

Arya Stark stared at the Twins in the distance.

The last time she had been there, the world had been on fire. It had felt like a cruel joke; seeing the Twins had filled her with such hope, hope she had not felt since the Lannisters cut off her father’s head. Stupidly, she had let herself think that she would see Robb and her mother again. 

But life wasn’t fair. She should have known better.

For so long after the Hound had taken her away, she could still hear the screaming. The sound filled the night air like a terrible song ripped from her nightmares.

The memory of that night was like a festering wound, slowly rotting away. It didn’t make her sad anymore, it made her  _ angry.  _ Yoren stopped her from seeing her father’s death, but the Hound hadn’t been able to save her from watching as her brother’s bloody corpse was tossed into the river. The men -  _ Freys _ \- had pissed in the water, laughing and jeering. 

_ The King in the North!  _ They’d sung,  _ the King in the North!  _

_ And what a King he was!  _ And they’d laughed and laughed and laughed.

Arya set up camp in the woods. She tied up her horse and trekked to the outskirts of the woods. She sat there for hours, watching, the memory of those men’s laughter echoing in her ears.

She wore the face of an old man, some poor peasant no one would ever look twice at. Hiding in plain sight was one of the many things she had learned in Braavos. She had learned many things from the Faceless Men. She knew how to move without making a sound. She knew how to keep out of sight. And she knew how to be anyone she wanted. 

_ Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow.  _

This face had served her well. For weeks she had lived on the streets of King’s Landing as a beggar, listening and biding her time.

During the long journey from Braavos, she had made her plans: she would find a way into the Red Keep, kill the Queen, and rescue her sister.

It wasn’t until weeks later that she heard her sister’s name being spoken. Lannister soldiers returning from Riverrun spoke of the pretty Northern girl marrying the heir to the Vale. They died fast - faster than they deserved - with Sansa’s name and all the terrible things they would’ve done to her still on their lips.

Arya had stolen one of the soldier’s horses and ridden north. The Queen could wait.

It wasn’t until nightfall that Arya decided to move closer to the Twins. 

She hadn’t seen any movement coming in and out of the castle all day. No one had crossed the bridge. No one had come to light the braziers along the wall. No light shone out of the castle windows.

From everything she had overheard, the Lannister army had left the Riverlands after taking back Riverrun from what was left of House Tully’s forces. The Riverlands were held by the Freys - so why was the Twins so quiet? She didn’t imagine old Walder Frey would leave his castle unattended.

She wore the face of a young, pox-ridden boy as she crept closer to the castle. She kept Needle hidden but her dagger close to hand. 

The ground where the Northern forces had camped was dead, the earth blackened. 

Arya didn’t let herself remember. Another one of Jaqen’s lessons. Pain would lead to anger, and anger would lead to mistakes.

It took some searching, but she found a way into the castle eventually. 

At once, she was struck by the smell. It reminded her of Harrenhal. It was the kind of stench that burned the inside of her nose and would stay with her for hours.

It was the unmistakable smell of death.

Arya wrapped her scarf around the lower half of her face to keep herself from retching. It would not do to give herself away just yet.

Arya’s footsteps were light; the only sound she could hear was the sudden upticking of her heart and the whispering of the wind. The silence hanging over the castle was heavy, suffocating. She wasn’t sure which was worse - the silence or the screams.

She kept her dagger close in hand as she approached the doors to the main hall. Somehow, the smell had only grown worse the closer she came to those doors. She reached for the handles, afraid, for the first time, of what she might find in that room. Her mother had died in that room. Her brother too. It had been a long time, but maybe -

_ Fear cuts deeper than swords. _

Arya took a deep breath and slowly pushed open the doors.

The inside of the room was dark, with only the moonlight spilling in through the gaps in the curtains offering any kind of light. Arya reached into her pack and pulled out a makeshift touch, lighting the soaked cloth with her flint and steel. The sudden burst of light hurt her eyes, making her squeeze them closed until they adjusted.

When she opened her eyes again, the sight before her nearly made her drop her torch in shock.

Freys. Dozens of dead freys. 

The ground was awash with blood. There were bodies strung up from the balcony above. There were bodies on the ground with torn out throats. There were others riddled with arrows. Some she imagined not even their own mother could recognise.

And there was old Walder Frey, his body slumped in his chair at the head of the table, with his head sat on the plate in front of him.

As Arya drew closer, she realised that some of the corpses looked older than the others. As though not every man in this room had died on the same day.

Once, before she was No One, before she was Arry, before she lost her father and her mother and her brothers, the sight of so much death would have frightened her. But instead. . . she didn’t feel anything. She didn’t even feel the satisfaction she had felt with the death of Meryn Trant. These deaths did not belong to her but they struck a name off of her list all the same.

Arya left the great hall as she found it; a feast for rats and vermin.

She explored the rest of the castle as Arya Stark, putting away her borrowed faces. 

It was only by chance that she stumbled upon the dungeons. 

There, in the dark, she found her uncle.

Edmure Tully did not react to the sudden light. She would have thought he was dead if not for the rise and fall of his chest. He looked dead; filthy rags hung off of his skeletal frame, his cheeks sunken and beard overgrown. 

Arya set her torch down on the ground as she crouched, pressing close to the bars of Edmure’s cell.

“Uncle.” She said, trying out the word. It felt like a lifetime had passed since she last saw him. “Edmure? Edmure Tully?”

Her uncle stirred. A raspy groan escaped him as his eyes slowly flickered open. 

“Water.” He rasped. “Please.”

There was bread and a skin of water in her pack. She passed them to him through the bars of his cell. He took the water with shaky hands, barely having the strength to lift the skin to his lips. He drank greedily - too fast, he’d make himself sick.

“Slow,” she said. “Drink it slow.”

He barely spared her a glance but he listened. Eventually.

It was only when the water was gone and he was tearing into the loaf of stale bread she’d given him that he looked at her. It took him a long moment to see her. To  _ know  _ her.

“Arya.” He breathed at long last, his eyes going wide. “Is - could that be you?”

“Yes.” Arya said, curling her fingers around the bars between them. Her mother’s eyes stared back at her on a stranger’s face. That festering wound inside of her ached, the agony worse than anything the Waif had ever done to her.

“How?” Edmure stared, looking as though he’d seen a ghost. He had, in a way.

“It’s a long story.”  _ It doesn’t matter.  _

“You shouldn’t be here - it’s not safe -”

“The Freys. They’re all dead.”

What little colour he had drained from his cheeks. Arya tensed. For a fleeting second, she was almost afraid of what he might say. Fearful of whatever judgement she might see in those eyes. But then Edmure shook his head with a soft sound of disbelief.

“I did wonder where all my visitors went. . .”

“How long has it been?” She asked as she passed him more scraps of bread she found in the bottom of her pack.

“I’m not sure. . . Weeks, maybe? The girl who brought me food always gave me extra. I knew to hide some away, just in case. . .” Edmure closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. “I never thought I’d thank the Gods for a roof that leaks.”

“I thought I heard - someone was killing them. Leaving their bodies strung up in the woods. They were afraid to leave the castle. The serving girl - she said it was a curse. For what they did to -” Edmure’s voice broke. His head tipped forward, his eyes shining with tears. “For what they did to your mother and brother.”

“Who?” Arya asked. “Did they say who was killing them?”

Edmure frowned. “I don’t - I just heard a name. But I don’t know -”

“What was the name?” She pressed, curious.

“Stoneheart.” Edmure said. “They called him Stoneheart.”

She felt a strange sense of disappointment wash over her. A small part of her had hoped to hear a familiar name. Perhaps some clue that the Freys had been butchered because of what they’d done.  _ The North remembers,  _ she thought.  _ Even if it’s just me. _

“You can go home.” Arya said as she rose to her feet. “D’you know where they kept the keys?”

Edmure blinked. He looked away from her with a frown, his jaw clenching. 

“Home.” He huffed. “And how long would it be before the Lannisters returned? Before I was right back here in chains? Home is lost - for the both of us, I fear.”

“I’m going home.” Arya said with an air of finality. “And so are you.”

“No -” Edmure gasped. His hands clutched at the bottom of her cloak as if he might be able to stop her. If he were anyone else, she might have laughed. “Arya, no. It’s too dangerous. You don’t understand - the Boltons have Winterfell. You cannot -”

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, her father always used to say, and she’d rather see her home burn to the ground than let the Boltons darken those halls one more day.

Arya smiled. Her list was getting shorter.


	3. salt and smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *renly baratheon voice* is he a ham?

Her first night on Dragonstone, Rhaenys’ slumber was plagued with strange dreams.

She’d tossed and turned for a long time; the unfamiliar sound of waves crashing against the rocks and the howling wind disturbed her rest. After hours of this, she’d reached for the tiny vial of sweetsleep she always kept on hand and added a drop to the goblet of water at her bedside. Sleep came swiftly after that.

She dreamed of a castle that might have once been beautiful, reduced to a blackened ruin. Ash and snow swirled on the ground beneath her feet but the cold did not touch her. Not in her dreams. Broken towers loomed over her, the stone cracked and charred and ruined. There was no birdsong, no trickle of a nearby stream, only silence. 

There was something sad about this place, yet something strangely familiar as well. She had dreamed of this place before, she realised.

She looked up and saw through the clouds a red star was bleeding across the night sky. It looked as though someone had taken a knife to the sky, tearing open a bloody wound. She had seen something similar once, years ago. A comet had burned across the sky the day Rhaenys and Aegon were reunited after so many long years apart and followed them on their journey across the Narrow Sea. Septa Lemore had said it was a sign from the Gods.

Her feet lead her through empty, forgotten corridors, with scorch marks licking up the walls and plantlife creeping in.

At the end of a long, winding staircase, she found a young man bent over a stack of scrolls. At his feet rested a harp. He was whispering something to himself, so engrossed in what he was reading he didn’t notice her presence.

The room was dark, lit only by a single candle that was burning low. There was something familiar about him. She thought for a moment, when she caught sight of his silvery hair, that it might be her uncle, Viserys. But this boy was older than the Viserys she had known.

It was only when his head lifted and deep purple eyes met hers that she knew him.

“Father.” She breathed, startled and relieved and disbelieving all at once. In all the years she had dreamed of her father, she had never seen him so young. “Father? It’s me - it’s Rhaenys.”

But Rhaegar did not respond. He did not seem to see or hear her. He looked around the room, filled with books and ancient scrolls, seemingly untouched by fire, with grief in his eyes. 

_ “It seems I must be a soldier.”  _ Rhaegar said with a shadow falling over his features. In that moment, Rhaenys no longer saw a young boy - who could be no older than twelve - but a man with the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. 

She took a step forward, hand outstretched as if to comfort him somehow, but before she could reach him, the dream dissolved around her. She was left alone in the darkness, with nothing but ash and snow at her feet and a comet burning across the sky above her.

She whirled around, calling for her father, and in the darkness, blue eyes started back at her.

“Princess!”

Rhaenys woke with a gasp, lurching upright in bed.

Septa Lemore was leaning over her, her expression pinched with concern. 

Rhaenys blinked, confused for a moment before awareness of where she was trickled in. 

The septa smoothed her hand over Rhaenys’ forehead, brushing her sweat-damp hair back.

“I was bringing your breakfast tray when I heard you crying out - are you alright?” 

Lemore wasn’t used to the dreams which had plagued Rhaenys all her life. At their worst, Rhaenys had woken all of the Water Gardens in the dead of night with her screaming. Oberyn had always known what to do on those nights, when the terrors struck and she was left too shaken to even think about sleeping again. He would bring her honeyed tea and sit with her until morning, telling her widely exaggerated stories of his adventures.

“I’m fine.” Rhaenys answered, knowing Lemore would not understand if she told her the truth. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“Was it a nightmare?” Lemore’s fingers were gentle as they worked the knots out of her hair.

“Something like that.” She murmured, recalling those haunting blue eyes peering back at her. 

“If it pleases you, I can have a bath drawn for you.”

Rhaenys smiled. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Lemore.”

Lemore smiled back, brushing her fingers through the hair at Rhaenys’ temple before she withdrew. The touch was grounding, but it did not soothe her frayed nerves the way Oberyn’s once had. But Rhaenys didn’t let herself think about that. Thinking about Oberyn only ever served to make her sad and she had no time for sadness. Not today.

Lemore returned with Rhaenys’ breakfast tray and word that a bath would be prepared for her. 

“How is Ysilla enjoying the new kitchens?” Rhaenys asked as she tucked into her breakfast of bacon, eggs, and honeyed biscuits. “A welcome reprieve from the  _ Shy Maid,  _ I imagine?”

“Yes, I’d say so.” Lemore said with a wry smile. “Anywhere with a working stove is an improvement from that old poleboat.”

Later, as Rhaenys lay in the steaming, perfumed bathwater, washing away the sweat and grime from her long journey at sea, there was a knock at the door. Lemore, who had been sitting on a stool beside the copper tub, helping wash her hair, rose to answer it. 

Rhaenys opened her eyes at the sound of quiet, hushed voices, though she could not make out the words. A moment later, Lemore returned with a sealed letter in her hands.

“From the Prince.” She said and Rhaenys sat up quickly, sending bathwater sloshing over the sides of the tub. 

Lemore smiled patiently, sidestepping a puddle of water, and offered Rhaenys a hand towel to dry her hands.

Rhaenys thanked her and took the letter once her hands were dry, breaking the seal at once. 

Rhaenys smiled at the sight of her brother’s neat, familiar hand. 

“Victory.” She said, pressing her hand to her chest in relief. “The Golden Company has taken Tarth, Crow’s Nest, Rain House, and Griffin’s Roost. . .”

Lemore edged closer, too polite to peer over her shoulder at the letter, even though she clearly wanted to. “And the Prince?”

“Unharmed.” She said and the relief she felt was mirrored on Lemore’s face. “Lord Connington kept him away from the thick of it.”

“The Prince can’t have been very happy about that.”

“No,” Rhaenys smiled. “Not particularly.” 

She recalled the stubborn look on her brother’s face when Lord Connington and Ser Harry had discussed their plan of invasion. Both men, while ordinarily disagreeing whenever they spoke, had agreed on one thing - that her brother would be kept far from the worst of the fighting. Aegon had looked to her for support when he protested the plan but Rhaenys had had to agree with Connington. He’d shot her a betrayed look but quieted his protests.

“Our lad. . . leading an army.” Lemore’s smile grew soft, filled with affection. “So long we have prayed for this day. All of us exiles. But to think - he was such a tiny thing when Lord Connington brought him to us.”

Aegon had been only seven the day the Spider had come back for him. 

The man had dyed her brother’s hair blue, gifted him a false name, and stolen him like a thief in the night. Rhaenys had cried and cried and cried with no one there to comfort her. And for months, she had drifted about Illyrio’s villa, yearning for her brother, waiting for the day the Spider brought him back to her. 

The Spider never returned.

But one day, a man arrived at their door, dressed in Dornish colours. He was expecting to find another bastard daughter claiming his parentage. Instead, he found a little girl with his long lost sister’s eyes and knew at once who she was, impossible though it may be. The man had fallen to his knees before her and wept for a long time. 

_ “Rhaenys,”  _ he’d said when the tears had passed, “ _ could it truly be you?”  _

When she had nodded, hesitant, the man had visibly gathered his resolve. With a flourish, he introduced himself. “ _ Prince Oberyn of Dorne, at your service.”  _

_ “The Viper.”  _ Little Rhaenys had murmured absently, drawing the moniker from an old, half-forgotten memory. 

_ “The very same.” _ Oberyn had replied, with an exaggerated  _ hiss _ that made her giggle.

And from the moment she had taken his hand and left the Lysene villa which had become her home, she had no longer been Rhaenys Targaryen. 

She left Illyrio’s villa as Meria Sand, just another one of Oberyn Martell’s bastards from some far off corner of the world. Oberyn had never breathed a word of the secret, save to his brother Doran, who had shed silent tears at the sight of her. 

It would be five long years before she saw her brother again.

“I remember.” Rhaenys said, forcing a smile onto her lips. 

Five years after the Spider took Aegon away, they were reunited in secret in Tyrosh. The tiny boy she remembered with silver curls and eyes too big for his face had grown into a beanpole, all skinny arms and legs, with a shock of deep blue hair. Those precious few days they were able to spend together while Connington met with Magister Illyrio were among the happiest of her memories.

Rhaenys’ false smile fell when she read through the rest of Aegon’s letter.

“Aegon means to lead the attack on Storm’s End. . .”

“Surely Lord Connington won’t allow -”

Rhaenys sighed wearily. “He’s a man grown now, I doubt he intends to ask permission.”

“We must pray for him.” Lemore said, aghast. “There is a sept in the castle. Will you join me in prayer, princess?”

Prince Doran had taught her the game of  _ cyvasse _ . He taught her that there was a lesson to be learned in every defeat. Doran would set up his pieces and tell her to study them long before she had her first move. He had always posed it as a game, but eventually Rhaenys had learned the true lesson behind it. He was trying to teach her to see actions and their consequences long before they happened, so that she might always be one step ahead of everyone else.

Rhaenys hadn’t wanted them to sail west instead of east to Daenerys. She hadn’t wanted them to land on the Storm Coast instead of Dorne. They were her brother and his war council’s plans. She’d had to rearrange the pieces in her head to match them. 

She hadn’t seen the sense in landing in Westeros and announcing her brother’s claim without Daenerys’ support. Their aunt had dragons and an army of Unsullied behind her. And she thought she was the last. The last Targaryen.

Even in her loneliest moment, Rhaenys had taken comfort in knowing she was not alone. She still had her brother, no matter how far he was from her, and she had her family in Dorne. Whatever cruel hand of fate had taken Viserys’ life, had taken from Daenerys the last of her known family. Rhaenys could only imagine the pain she’d felt.

She leaned her head back against the rim of the bath and closed her eyes, trying to think the way Prince Doran did. She imagined her brother as the king, the most important piece on the board. But the most vulnerable as well. The Golden Company were his spearmen, his horses, his elephants. . . Daenerys would have been their dragon, the most powerful piece of them all, but she had been removed from the game.

The Lannisters did not yet know who they were. The confusion and the chaos of the realm worked in their favour. And Cersei Lannister had enemies all around her, enemies who could be persuaded over to their cause. 

The Dornish army was amassed in the Boneway and the Prince’s Pass, waiting for the call. Doran, she knew all too well, wanted to wait for the right moment. He did not want to risk moving against his enemies too soon and have the wrath of the Lannister forces fall upon Dorne alone. 

Illyrio had his sights set on the Tyrells, who suspected Lannisters allies no longer. 

She doubted the Tyrells would pledge themselves to their banner out of the goodness of their hearts, though. 

The destruction of the sept - which, among many, had killed Queen Margaery, as well as her father and brother - had been ruled a tragic accident. The boy-king himself had supposedly been injured in the blast, arriving late with his Hand. Whispers of something more sinister at work - all pointing at the Queen Regent - were not enough for her to hedge their bets on the Tyrells so early in the game.

There was not much love lost between Dorne and the Reach, after all. 

The offer of Rhaenys’ hand to the Tyrell heir, Willas, would garner attention - as much as she loathed to think it. Her brother’s hand was too valuable to promise - especially not when there was the possibility of Daenerys accepting it - but Rhaenys’ was another story.

With a sigh, Rhaenys rose from the bath.

“Send a prayer to the Seven for me, Septa. I’m afraid there is much work to be done.”

  
  


~*~

Rhaenys’ hand ached by the end of the day from all the letters she had written.

The carefully worded code Doran had given her would tell their allies what they needed to know and their enemies nothing at all. 

Just as the reply to her brother would make little sense to anyone else if it fell into the wrong hands.

She emerged from her chambers well into the evening, shaking the cramp from her hand, exhausted. 

Only a fraction of her brother’s forces had landed on Dragonstone with her, meaning the castle was quiet, with little more than two dozen occupying the castle proper. 

The castle could withstand a siege, but it was no place for her brother to base his forces. It was too close to King’s Landing. A smattering of men also meant they would garner less attention, keeping them safe from the Lannister-controlled Greyjoy fleet. With her brother’s actions drawing attention in the Stormlands, no one would look to the abandoned castle, leaving them hiding more or less in plain sight. Or so her brother had argued. Rhaenys still thought Dorne was the safer option. 

“Evening, Princess.” Ser Rolly called out as she entered in the dining hall. A few others murmured greetings as she passed and she responded in turn. 

Rhaenys had made sure to learn every name of every man, woman, and child occupying Dragonstone with her. The Gods only knew how long they might be stuck on the island together.

“How are you, Ser Rolly?” Rhaenys asked as she sat down next to the knight, a bowl of soup in hand.

“Can’t complain.” Rolly laughed goodnaturedly, shifting down the bench to give her more room. “A nice comfy bed, warm fire, and a roof over my head - could be worse. But anything’s better than that stinkin’ poleboat.”

Rhaenys, who had only spent a handful of months aboard the boat, couldn’t help but agree.

“Never been in a castle before.” Rolly told her, squinting up at the high, stone ceiling. “They didn’t let the likes of me in at Bitterbridge.”

“Oh?” Rhaenys sifted her spoon through her soup as she waited for it to cool, eyeing Rolly curiously. “And is it how you imagined?”

“It’s draftier.” Rolly shrugged. “Thought there’d be more servants, waitin’ on hand and foot to wipe my arse.” Rhaenys snorted and Rolly shot her a quick glance, flushing. “Sorry, princess. Shouldn’t be using that kind of talk - old Griff would’ve had me by the bollocks -” 

“It’s alright,” Rhaenys laughed when Rolly cut himself off, cursing under his breath. “I doubt anything you say could shock me. The Dornish aren’t known for holding their tongues.”

Rolly glanced across at her, his expression dubious. 

“When my cousins are here, you will see.” Rhaenys said, smiling at the thought of her vibrant cousins, with their sharp, mocking smiles, amongst the likes of Jon Connington and Haldon Halfmaester. They had been raised as her sisters; Oberyn had never revealed the secret to his paramour or his daughters. They knew the truth of it now and were still sailing to Dragonstone. It gave Rhaenys hope that they were not too angry with her at the deception.

_ If only Arianne was coming as well,  _ Rhaenys thought. Of them all, she missed Arianne the most.

“Your cousins?” Rolly queried, drawing her from her thoughts.

“My late Uncle Oberyn’s daughters.”

Rolly’s eyes widened a fraction. 

“The Viper? Gods - is it true that he was the one who crippled Lord Tyrell’s son? It was all anyone talked about at Bitterbridge. Heard someone say a snake bit the leg of his horse and caused it to fall. I didn’t believe that one myself. Others said it was revenge for . . .”

Rhaenys tuned out the rest of what Ser Rolly was saying. The knight did not seem to notice. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him waving his hands, no doubt repeating some outlandish rumour about the great Viper of Dorne. She ate the rest of her soup in silence and excused herself as politely as she could once she was finished.

She couldn’t share stories of her uncle or smile fondly at the imaginative tales of his conquests. The grief was too fresh.

Wringing her hands, Rhaenys said her goodbyes to the people sharing her table and left the dining hall. She thought perhaps she might Ysilla and see how the others from the poleboat were settling in, but her feet lead her someplace else entirely. 

Rhaenys found herself in the Chamber of the Painted Table. The air in the room was full of dust; she was, perhaps, the first person to step inside the room since Stannis Baratheon and his men had cleared out. In the centre of the chamber sat the fabled table from which it took its name.

This was the room where her ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, had planned his invasion of the Seven Kingdoms. The great table was carved and painted in the image of Westeros he had seen and envisioned - with no borders, but one single kingdom for him to rule over. 

There were figurines sat on the carved table; lions and stags and wolves, like pieces upon a  _ cyvasse  _ board. Rhaenys approached, trailing her finger through the gathering of dust on the table, until she reached Dragonstone. There sat a carved figure of a crowned stag. Rhaenys picked up the map marker and considered it for a moment, before setting it aside. 

There were no dragons upon the Painted Table. They would have to remedy that.

~*~

Rhaenys was dreaming.

She knew she was dreaming. 

She opened her eyes, saw that she was stood in the sunlit parlour of Maegor’s Holdfast with little Balerion curling around her legs, and knew this was no ordinary dream. This was both a dream and a half-forgotten memory.

Somewhere, her lady mother’s laughter carried through the halls to her; a soft sound she was able to bask in, without the pain that came along with it when she was awake. She thought she could hear baby Aegon babbling sweetly in response, somewhere close by. She bent, scooping Balerion into her arms and turned, looking for her mother. 

She didn’t find her. Instead, she found someone else. . .

Across from her, features concealed in shadow, was her father. Those long, elegant fingers were plucking at the strings of his harp. The notes created a familiar melancholy sound. It was the last song he had ever played for her. A song of ice and fire.

Rhaenys took a step towards her father. His head lifted, as if noticing her presence for the first time. 

Rhaenys took another step closer, taking in his features desperately, taking in every little detail. She was terrified of the day when she no longer remembered what he looked like. Terrified of the day when she couldn’t recall the deep indigo shade of his eyes or the shine of his silvery blonde hair. So many things had already been forgotten. She would not let the memory of her father’s - or her mother’s - face be one of them.

_ “Rhaenys,”  _ Rhaegar breathed. He sounded strangely breathless, almost surprised.  _ “Do you understand yet?” _

Rhaenys shook her head. So many times, her father had asked her the same question. And she never had an answer for him. Not even in her dreams. 

Rhaegar sighed. Then, after what seemed to be a moment of hesitation, he held out his hand.

But Rhaenys was wary. Anytime she reached for her father in her dreams he dissolved like smoke. It had been so long since she had dreamed of him like this, she was afraid. 

As of late, her dreams had been plagued with worries of the wars to come. Only on that first night on Dragonstone had she dreamed of Rhaegar, but he had been young - so very young - and not the father she had known and loved and missed so very dearly.

Little Balerion squirmed in her arms, nudging the underside of her chin with his head. He was only a tiny thing but she used to pretend he was the true Balerion, the black dread of old. 

She always wondered what had happened to him. She had been so young. She had cried for him the most on the long journey across the Narrow Sea. She hadn’t yet understood that she would not be seeing him, or Mama, or Father again.

_ “Trust me.”  _ Her father said, and she did.

She slipped her hand into his and the sunlit room around them bled away into darkness. 

Suddenly she was stood in the ruins of an old castle, the stone black, the air filled with smoke. Above her, a red star bled across the sky. She knew this place. She knew it.

Rhaegar turned to her, his hand solid and real and clasped tightly around hers, and she was startled to see that his cheeks were stained with tears and soot. Distantly, she heard the melancholic notes of his final song, made eerie by the burnt out ruin they were standing in.

_ “Do you understand yet?”  _ Rhaegar asked again but still, the answer was no. _ “I was born amidst salt and smoke, but I was not the one.” _

And then Rhaenys heard a sound, unlike anything she had ever heard before. A monstrous roar rattled the shattered glass still clinging to their frames and sent a shiver up her spine. She looked up and found the sky was dark, the sun blotted out by black, monstrous wings. Rhaegar’s grip tightened on her hand, pulling her close. His breath was cold on her cheek, his eyes bright, bright blue.

_ “The dragon must have three heads.” _

Rhaenys woke with a start, to a hand pushing persistently at her shoulder.

  
“Princess, please!” She heard Lemore saying, a note of alarm in her voice. “Wake up, princess!”

“I’m awake.” Rhaenys rasped as she rolled over onto her back. Lemore was leaning over her, cheeks ghostly pale with worry in her eyes. 

“Princess. . .” Lemore sat on the edge of her bed, taking Rhaenys’ left hand in both of hers. Lemore’s hands were almost searingly hot against her icy cold fingers. “You were crying out in your sleep again, just like before. . . Ser Rolly thought you were being attacked. I called and called, but you would not wake.”

Rhaenys’ gaze shifted to the ceiling, her stomach churning with shame and discomfort. She didn’t like to see the kind-hearted Septa worry, but she had never spoken of her dreams to anyone but Oberyn. Not even Aegon knew of the strange, impossible things she oftimes dreamed.

Rhaenys sat up slowly, drawing her hand out of Lemore’s. She pushed back the covers and winced when her bare feet touched the cold stone floor. 

The castle was cold. Always cold. Even after a month, she had not grown any more accustomed to it. 

While Volantis had smelled of fish and Dorne of dust and blood oranges, the salty air of Dragonstone was coloured with the smell of smoke and brimstone. The wind blowing in from the sea was bitingly cold. 

She had noticed aboard the ship that with every day they had come closer to Westeros, the nights grew colder.

_ Winter is coming.  _ Those were the Starks’ words, were they not? A dour warning for the always inevitable winter. And as of late, there was always snow in her dreams. 

She recalled the ash and the snow and the haunting blue eyes and shivered.

_ “Do you understand yet?”  _ She heard of the ghostly echo of her father’s voice in her ears. Whether it was real and imagined, she did not know. So many memories she mistook for dreams, and so many dreams for memories.

“Two. . . two letters arrived for you in the night.” Lemore said from behind her, her tone cautious. She wanted to reassure the Septa that all was well but her dreams had left her so shaken she wasn’t sure she could muster a smile. She wanted honeyed tea and the balmy Dornish night and the smell of blood orange trees. She wanted the Water Gardens and the only family she had that hadn’t been taken from her. She wanted Oberyn.

Rhaenys pressed the back of her hand to her lips to quell the sob threatening to burst from her. She closed her eyes against the sting of tears, breathing in the salty air.

Grief was an old friend. She wished she did not know it so well.

“What do the letters say?” Rhaenys asked once the threat of tears had passed.

“One is from the Prince.” Lemore responded and she could hear her fumbling with the letter’s seal. A moment later, she continued. “It says a Dornish host met with them on the road from Cape Wrath. . . they took Storm’s End together with little resistance. The acting Lord of Storm’s End underestimated them. Few casualties. . . the Prince sustained a minor injury to his arm. Nothing to -” Lemore tutted. “ _ Nothing to concern yourself with.  _ As if we aren’t all worried sick.”

At Lemore’s chiding tone, Rhaenys was able to muster up a ghost of a smile. Lemore was, perhaps, the only mother figure Aegon had ever had. Just as Aegon was the closest thing the septa had to a son. And it showed.

“And the other letter?” 

“I’m not sure, princess. There isn’t a seal.” She heard Lemore unrolling a roll of paper and then there was a pause. When the silence stretched on, Rhaenys glanced over her shoulder. Her brows drew together at the odd expression on Lemore’s face.

“What? What is it?” She pressed.

“It. . . it says  _ at Summerhall, he was born amidst salt and smoke. Only there will you find the answers that you seek.” _

Rhaenys turned slowly, her shoulders stiffening. A shiver ran down her spine. 

“There isn’t a name.” Lemore glanced up, bewildered, her eyes searching Rhaenys’ face for something - some clue that Rhaenys understood. “Do - do you know who this came from, princess? Is it a code of some sort?”

If it was, it wasn’t one Doran ever shared with her.

Rhaenys took the letter from Lemore and held it with unsteady hands. She didn’t recognise the handwriting. But even if she had, would that have mattered? 

Rhaenys had never breathed a word of her dreams to anyone save her uncle, who was years dead. There was no one alive who could know. It was impossible. But the idea that it was some sort of coincidence, that an unnamed letter contained the exact words she had heard uttered in her dreams? That was a greater folly.

_ Summerhall,  _ she thought. That alone was something she had not known.

It put a name at last to the ruin she had been dreaming of for so long.

She thought of her father, so very young and hunched over scrolls in a ruined castle. He had been born at Summerhall, had he not? During a great fire which had taken the lives of so many.  _ Born amidst salt and smoke. . . _

Rhaenys looked back out of the window, at the rough grey sea below. 

“Lemore, how far from here is Summerhall?”

  
  



	4. storm's end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe its been almost a year since i last posted. i'm so so sorry! 2020 has been rough, i hope you're all staying safe and sane and healthy. i promise if anyone still cares about this story i'll keep going. i totally had to rethink where everything was going and what was going on plotwise and i think i have it all worked out :))))

Rhaenys eyed the cloud strewn, bruise-purple sky and gripped the railing of the ship. Her dry, cracked knuckles smarted at the strain. She sent a desperate plea to Gods who she scarcely believed in for some reprieve from the rough sea. 

Even on their fastest, sturdiest ship, the rough seas and torrents of rain had slowed their journey to a crawling halt. 

Her stomach turned, lurching dangerously as the ship was battered by yet another wave. A sailor had told her to keep an eye on her horizon to keep her lunch down. But when the horizon was no longer visible, Rhaenys wasn’t sure what she was supposed to look at. That same sailor eyed her with suspicion whenever she passed so she had not asked.

Her brother’s men were angry. They didn’t understand why they had been dragged back to sea so soon. Especially not when her reasoning had been vague at best. They were her brother’s men, not hers, but they weren’t bidden to question her orders. Yet she could sense, after a near fortnight at sea, their discontent was rising.

And if they demanded an answer, she was not sure what she would tell them. 

If she told the truth that she had sailed them into a storm, after months at sea, on the advice of a mysterious, unsigned letter, she suspected there might be a mutiny in her near future. Sister of the rightful King be damned.

She had been so certain of herself when Lemore had shown her Summerhall on a map. Summerhall was several hours' ride from Storm’s End - a day’s journey, at most, if she rode hard and light. 

And she thought if she sailed straight to her brother she would not risk being intercepted by Lannister soldiers on the road. A single ship sailing along the coast would not draw any attention. And even if it did, her brother’s men knew what to do. 

Weeks into what should have been a short, painless journey had shaken her faith. 

And yet, every night she dreamed of that burned out ruin and her father and a raven with three eyes watching her silently from afar.

Aside from her Oberyn, Rhaenys had never told anyone the kinds of things she dreamed of. Her brother - he had never asked. He knew nightmares would wake her in the dead of night and told her once that he had them too. She never told him the whole truth. Looking back, Rhaenys wasn’t so sure why.

Whoever had sent the raven. . . they knew.

However impossible it seemed.

From what little she had told him - her brother knew her nights were not plagued by ordinary nightmares. Aegon was too kind to dismiss her concerns over the things she dreamed of if ever she told him the truth. Though she feared he might - privately - think her slightly unhinged, like many of the Targarens of old. 

She had thought her greatest obstacle would be convincing him to give her leave to go to Summerhall. She had not foreseen the storm.

“Princess! Princess!?” Rhaenys turned at the sound of someone calling out to her. She saw Ser Rolly stepping out onto the deck from below. His terse expression relaxed for a second when he spotted her but the frown was quick to return. “Seven Hells! Princess, it isn’t safe out here!” 

The ship lurched, the movement causing her to fall hard against the railing. She heard hurried footsteps and then felt a hand at her elbow, tugging her back. She glanced up, meeting Rolly’s startled eyes. 

“It isn’t safe!” The knight yelled. “If you get knocked overboard the Prince’ll have my head! C’mon!”

Casting a quick glance at the roaring sea below, Rhaenys nodded. Rolly muttered something under his breath and steered her away. 

She felt the eyes of haggard sailors on her as she passed and ducked her head. She knew her histories. She knew how many ships had been lost along this same coast to storms just like this one. Not for the first time, she feared she had made a grave mistake.

“You _ must _ stay down here.” She realised Rolly was saying as they navigated the steps down into the bowels of the ship. The knight’s grip was tight on her elbow, almost painful. She was sure to have a bruise there later. “It ain’t safe with the sea so rough. One rough wave and that’s it for you. Then what’re we supposed to do, eh?”

“I only wanted some fresh air.” Rhaenys sighed. “It’s so stuffy down here!”

“Stuffy’s better than dead!” The knight snapped back at her. 

Rhaenys glanced across at him sharply. She took in his clenched jaw and furrowed brow. Ser Rolly was losing his patience with her as well, she feared.

“I’m sorry.” She relented. “I won’t do it again.”

Rolly eyed her expression critically. He nodded once and she felt as though she were a child being scolded and not a Princess speaking with her sworn shield.

She hesitated at her chamber door once they reached it, wondering if she ought to say something. Aegon would have. Her brother would have reminded the knight not to forget himself. He would have reminded him that he was speaking to his future king. 

But Aegon, in spite of growing up with a false name on poleboats, amongst sellswords and exiles in Essos, had always known who he was. To the world, he was the son of a dead Tyroshi and a washed-up sellsword. But in private, he was still Prince Aegon Targaryen, the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. 

While Rhaenys. . . Rhaenys had been a bastard since she was nine years old. 

Even in Dorne, the bastard daughter of Oberyn Martell was not given the same respect as a trueborn child. She was never Arianne or Quentyn or young Trystane’s equal. Highborn boys never asked for her hand. Those who had courted her had only ever seen her beauty and her body and wanted to charm their way into her bed. 

In fear of the secret being discovered, both Oberyn and Doran had only ever spoken her real name a handful of times. 

Rhaenys looked at Ser Rolly and knew she ought to say something. 

But then she noticed how tired and out of sorts the young knight looked. She saw the bags under his eyes and how ragged the hair on his once unshaven jaw was. 

_ This is my fault, _ she thought. _ I did this. _

So Rhaenys went into her room and closed the door and said nothing.

That night she dreamed of black feathers and blood falling on snow and the mournful sound of a lone wolf’s howl.

She did not sleep well.

~*~

Three and a half weeks into their journey, the storm finally broke.

From then on, it was smooth sailing onto the aptly named Storm’s End.

She heard the sailors praising the Gods. And with the first break in the rain for weeks, the ill mood which had been hanging over the ship was lifted. 

She feared they had been at a tipping point and the pendulum had swung in her favour. No more dark looks were shot her way, or grumbling outside her chamber door, nor were there any whispering of a mutiny to be found. All - it appeared - was forgiven. So long as the weather remained in their favour.

Rhaenys felt as though she could finally properly breathe again, knowing she had not damned herself and fifty good men on a whim.

If she had much faith in the Gods, she might have wondered if the storm had held them at sea for a reason. But Rhaenys had lost her faith in the Gods long ago.

The sailors were all smiles at her the first time she emerged from below deck, the sun shining high and bright in the clear blue sky. The sun was bright but the wind blowing in from the north was ice cold.

That night, for the first time in weeks, she dreamt of nothing at all.

~*~

She almost wept at the sight of Storm’s End on the horizon.

The homestead of the Usurper, the seat of House Baratheon. Before that moment she would not have thought such a place could ever bring her joy, not unless she was burning it to the ground. But the relief over the journey’s end and knowing that her brother resided within those walls chased away any ill feelings towards the place. 

And seeing the colours of House Targaryen flying proudly from the parapets, knowing her brother would have had them be put there to spite the ghost of Robert Baratheon brought the first smile to her lips in weeks.

For once, Ser Rolly didn’t protest when she insisted on standing at the front of the ship. The knight stood by her side as she watched the land creep closer and closer. 

The knight, she noticed, was clean shaved. He even smiled when he glanced her way.

It was ugly - Storm’s End. She didn’t know what she had expected, but the sight that greeted her wasn’t it. 

A great chunk of pale grey stone sat on a battered, barren cliffside. The fortress’ one tower looked almost like a fist - thrusting high towards the sky. From the castle walls was a long, straight drop to the sea. 

It looked like a cold, miserable place.

But she’d never been so happy to see it.

There was no port at Storm’s End, nor any place safe enough for the ship to drop her anchor. The waves battered against the rocky coastline, making risking a rowboat out of the question. If there was a way - her sailors did not know it.

The ship had to continue along the coast until they reached a small cove, where a party of knights was there waiting for them. For a moment the sight of them made her nervous. She had forgotten the ravens carrying coded letters her brother had been receiving since they departed. 

But then she spied the banners - one black and red, the other an orange sun. 

She was not sure she would have believed it if someone would have told her younger self that she would one day see House Targaryen banners on display again in Westeros. Let alone on Baratheon soil.

Oh, how she hoped wherever his vile spirit was, the Usurper was rolling in his grave.

The journey to shore seemed to take hours as her impatience to see her brother mounted. 

She was not as surprised as she ought to have been to count her brother among the party waiting ashore for them. His stark silver-blond hair was hidden beneath a helm but there was no mistaking the figure which broke from the group and strode into knee-high water when her rowboat reached the shore.

“Rhae!” A bright smile flashed across Aegon’s face as he reached for her. 

Rhaenys felt her eyes smart with tears at the sight of her beloved brother’s face. 

She had barely managed to get her feet under her before he swept her out of the boat and into his arms. Her ever gallant brother carried her to shore, saving her from slogging through icy waters like the rest. 

“Brother.” Rhaenys breathed fondly. She pressed her forehead to Aegon’s stubbly cheek and he squeezed her tight in return.

Aegon set her down on the stony shore but did not release her, grasping her shoulders and keeping her close.

“It’s good to see you, I missed you.” Aegon said lowly, lest his gruff, bearish knights overheard and thought him soft for saying such things.

“As I missed you.” Rhaenys said and pressed a loving kiss to his cheek.

Over his shoulder, Rhaenys spied Jon Connington stood among the welcoming party. Or in his case, the dour, entirely unwelcoming party. She should have known he would be there.

The man had never once looked at her without a glower on his face, so she had not endeavored to make much of an effort to keep one off of hers whenever she saw him. It was only her brother’s love for him and Connington’s loyalty in return that kept her civil.

“Why have you come?” Aegon ducked his head to look her in the eyes, both his expression and his tone conveying his seriousness. She could not fault him for it. She could not imagine what he must have wondered was wrong in the weeks he spent waiting for her arrival.

“There is something I must do,” she said, matching his tone. “At Summerhall.”

“Summerhall?” Aegon frowned. “What business could you have there?”

Rhaenys bit her lip. Aegon noticed her hesitation and though his frown deepened, he gave her shoulders a squeeze before releasing her. 

“We’ll speak more on it later, sister. Come, you must be tired after your journey.”

Rhaenys watched as her dear little brother straightened his shoulder and adopted the mantle of their Prince. The boyish smile and fondness in his eyes faded from sight once he turned from her. As he addressed the men who had accompanied her, he looked older. Taller. A man grown.

It was a mask he wore. One he wore well.

Yet she still saw little traces of her dear little brother when he snuck smiles at her and fidgeted idly with his hair.

“Princess.” Rhaenys did not have to look to know that Lord Connington was addressing her. She turned to the knight, now lord of a holdfast once more, and smiled thinly at his familiar, dour expression. 

She did not know what his quarrel was with her - if one ever existed at all. There was always something about his eyes whenever he looked at her. But she did not have the words to describe it.

“Lord Connington.” Said Rhaenys, tilting her head in feigned respect. 

“The Prince has been most eager for your arrival.” Only when casting a glance her brother’s way did the bitter edge to his gaze soften.

“Yes,” Rhaenys smiled as her gaze followed his. “So I gathered.”

“I was. . . surprised when the Prince informed me of your decision to leave Dragonstone.” Connington told her, sounding as always like he was speaking through clenched teeth. “That was never a part of our plans.”

“None that you were privy to, anyway.”

Rhaenys managed to retain her smile when she looked back at Lord Connington. She bowed her head in dismissal and moved on. 

She moved over to her brother, where he stood with his sworn swords. The men gathered greeted her a great deal more warmly than Jon Connington ever had. 

She had not had much time to become acquainted with the men of the Golden Company - perhaps by her brother’s design - but there were a few - like Ser Harry and Ser Franklyn - who she had gotten to know a little. 

She rode with her brother on the short journey along the cliffs to Storm’s End. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his shoulder to save her from the worst of the icy wind. She would need to invest in warmer dresses. Warmer cloaks. Warmer everything. Winter - it seemed - was well on its way.

~*~

It took hours before she was finally able to speak with her brother alone.

It was to be expected. Her timing had been poor. Her brother was at the beginning of a campaign, she doubted he had enough time to _ sleep _, let alone sit with her and talk for hours on end like they used to. But all the same, she could not help but feel disappointed when she was ushered into what was to be her rooms the moment they arrived at the castle and her brother was whisked away by Lord Connington.

The rooms were grey; they were gloomy like the rest of the castle. The window overlooked the sea. 

She didn’t know whose rooms they had once been. With her brother in the Lord’s chambers, she imagined she had been given the rooms of a lesser Baratheon son or daughter. There were books still littered around the room, letters and papers too. There was clothing still hanging in the dresser. 

But she didn’t think she wanted to know. The thought of sleeping in the same bed where the Usurper had once lain made her sick to her stomach.

What little luggage she had brought was delivered by Ser Rolly and left by the side of the bed. Her clothing from the journey would need to be sent off for washing, as was a request for furs to line a new cloak. She could make her own while she was there, or on the road to Summerhall. She was sure new clothing would be waiting for her back at Dragonstone but she needed something warmer in the interim.

After a long bath and supper taken in the privacy of her own rooms, Rhaenys sank into a chair in front of the hearth. 

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, dragging a comb through her damp hair, sitting close enough to the fire for an occasional ember to spit at her. The cold was pervasive; she felt as though she could feel it right down to her bones.

She couldn’t imagine what it was like further north.

Rhaenys looked up at the sound of her chamber door opening. She schooled her instinctive smile at the sight of her brother.

“Forgive me?” Aegon edged into the room, smiling sheepishly.

Rhaenys pretended to think about it.

“There’s nothing to forgive, brother.”

Aegon grinned. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud.

“Gods it’s cold.” He muttered as he dropped onto the floor by her feet. Rhaenys watched on fondly as he tugged the ties of his vambraces loose with his teeth. 

She remembered the first time she had seen him in armour. His knights had proclaimed him Aegon the Conqueror reborn, the might of old Valyria and House Targaryen in human flesh. But Rhaenys had almost wept. She remembered when her father put on his own armour. He went away to war and never came home.

“Have you eaten?”

“Mm.” Aegon grunted in response. His vambraces fell to the floor with a clang. “Ate with the men.”

Rhaenys studied his profile in the firelight. With his silver hair stark and proud and deep blue, almost purple eyes, her brother had the look of a true Targaryen. Her dark eyes, dark hair, dark features were all Dornish. They were as different as the sun and the moon. She imagined that, to an outsider, they might appear as the ghosts of her father and mother. Shades of Rhaegar and Elia. 

But Aegon did not have their father’s melancholic air. Aegon had a face made for smiling.

Rhaenys dropped her hand onto the top of his head and raked her fingers through his silvery hair. Aegon leaned his head back with an appreciative hum and rested his cheek on her knee. He leaned into her touch like a spoiled housecat. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Rhae.” Aegon tilted his head back to look at her. “But _ why _are you here?”

Rhaenys toyed idly with a silver curl. 

“Summerhall,” she said. “There’s. . . there’s something I need to do there. Something I need to see.”

Aegon was quiet for a long moment. 

“Father was born there.” He eventually said, firelight dancing in his eyes. 

Rhaenys’ fingers stilled in his hair.

“Yes,” she said quietly. She watched the flames, searching for words. Her dreams had been a constant companion for so long, but even she only half-believed them true. How could she possibly explain that which she herself did not even understand. “I’ve been dreaming about it. Dreaming about Father. . .” 

“I understand.” Aegon curled one hand around her ankle, squeezing. “Being back home, after so long. . . it must be bringing it all back.”

“I need answers.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was near enough in a way she knew he’d understand.

Aegon smiled as if he understood, but she knew he was only humouring her. He couldn’t understand. Of course he couldn’t, _ she _couldn’t understand.

“We can leave tomorrow -”

“No,” she was quick to cut in, “I can’t ask that of you. You’re needed _ here _. What you’re doing is too important. I’ll go alone -”

“That’s out of the question, Rhae!” Aegon half-turned to face her, his brows furrowed. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I won’t allow it. We don’t control enough of the area. A Lannister army could be marching on us as we speak. If they intercepted you on the road -”

“So I’ll take Ser Rolly.” She insisted, holding up her hand to stop her brother from interrupting. “A couple on the road - two young lovers running away from home - no one would question it.”

Aegon paused, and she knew she had won. 

“I don’t like it.” He eventually said. 

“I know.” She smiled. “But this is important to me. I need to go.”

Aegon leaned back against her leg with a heavy sigh. She returned her hand to his hair and started carding her fingers through his silvery curls once more.

“You’ll arm yourself. Keep off the main roads. And a group of my men will follow at a distance.” Aegon eventually said. His tone was firm, leaving no room for arguments. 

“All right.” She said, smiling faintly. She had expected him to put up more of a fight. “Now tell me about your campaign.”

As Aegon spoke, recounting the keeps and holdfasts they’d successfully taken, and those which they had their sights on next, Rhaenys watched him in the firelight. Her little brother - he was a soldier now, a leader of men. He had scars, blood on his hands to prove it. Was this what he was always destined to become? If war had never darkened their doorsteps, had horror never chased them from their home, what life might her dear little brother had led?

In her dreams, Aegon was always a little boy. A tiny thing with bright purple eyes too big for his face, crying out for her to save him, surrounded by a darkness that threatened to swallow him whole. She had never dreamed of him as a man. As a warrior. As a King.

She didn’t know what that meant.

“. . .We’ll take the roseroad next. Intercept the shipments of food into King’s Landing.” He told her, but something in his tone told her he wasn’t pleased with the idea.

“We cannot count on the Tyrells to support us.” She reminded him.

“Cersei Lannister blew up the Sept of Baelor with half the Tyrells inside!” Aegon exclaimed. His shoulders went rigid and his hands balled into fists on his lap. “Our spies within the city say no one has seen Tommen since that day. He could be dead too, for all we know! The people are scared - trapped inside the city with that loathsome bitch. If we cut off the roseroad, they’ll starve.”

Rhaenys bent forward, pressing her lips to the top of his head.

“I know,” she whispered, “I _ know.” _

Rhaenys knew what it was like, to be trapped in that city. She knew better than anyone.

“A King is supposed to protect his people. Keep them safe. Not let them _starve _. How can I ask them to support me if I’m no better than the Lannisters?” Aegon turned his head to look at her, his dark eyes searching her face as if he’d somehow find the answer there. 

Rhaenys’ hand fell to his shoulder. 

“We are nothing like them. Do you hear me? _ Nothing.” _

“But -”

“No.” Rhaenys gripped Aegon’s shoulder firmly. She wouldn’t let him think that. Not even for a second. “Cersei Lannister is her father’s daughter. She doesn’t care about the smallfolk. She’d sacrifice every man, woman, and child if it meant keeping control of the throne.”

Aegon sighed wearily. “So what am I supposed to do? Jon’s plan is sound, but. . . there has to be another way.”

Rhaenys thought of her cyvasse board. She thought of the rabble - the pawns - the most numerous of all the pieces on the board. They were useless against the other pieces - the spearman, the elephants, the dragons - but served a purpose. She had seen her uncle use pawns to secure a victory in ways she never could have foreseen. In times such as these, she wondered what advice Prince Doran might offer.

“There’s always another way,” she murmured, deep in thought. 

She just didn’t know what it was yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up, checking in with sansa.


	5. interlude: sansa

Sansa stood on the battlements with flakes of snow catching in her vibrant auburn hair.

She watched with gloved fingers curling into her palm as the distant party disappeared into the mist.

The world outside the castle walls was white, and grey, and growing darker by the day. Snow blanketed the rolling hills and plains and the horizon bled into the pale grey sky. 

She could not remember the last time she had felt the sun on her face or the brush of a warm breeze. Even before she had left the Vale, the days had begun to grow shorter, colder. The journey from the Eyrie had been bitterly cold.

_ ‘Winter is here,’  _ she had told Jon, standing in the very same spot as she had then.

_ ‘Well, Father always promised, didn’t he?’  _

Jon was gone. And with him went Ghost, Ser Davos, and a precious few knights. The tracks their horses had left in the snow were already beginning to fade. 

Sansa missed Jon’s presence keenly already.

Their bannermen were unhappy; they did not understand why their King had left them. She would have to speak with them soon and dissuade them from their discontent. Winter was here, and Jon was right, they had to trust each other. They had too many enemies to be fighting amongst themselves.

But even Sansa struggled to comprehend Jon’s reasons why he had to leave. The world was filled with horrors - this, she knew. But the horrors Jon described, the monsters that dwelled beyond the wall, which could only die by a certain blade, were beyond her understanding.

Old Nan’s stories of the Others had frightened her. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined they might be true.

Bran had always loved those stories best. Sometimes she wondered what he might have thought of all this.

Sansa could only pray that Jon’s journey would not be for nothing and that the word of the late Lord Stannis Baratheon was true, and a plethora of dragonglass lay beneath Dragonstone. Most of all, she prayed for Jon’s swift return.

In his place, Jon had named her Lady of Winterfell. 

Absently, she wondered if that was supposed to bring her joy. It surely would have done, once.

But Winterfell was cold, colourless without her family. 

It was not the home Sansa remembered.

Home was her father, her mother. Home was Robb’s laughter. Bran and Rickon chasing each other through the halls with their direwolves at their heels. Home was Arya, Septa Mordane, Maester Luwin,  _ Lady. _

Jon was all she had left, and he was gone. Riding south. 

Sansa braced her hands against the battlements and closed her eyes. Nothing good, it would seem, came from members of her family riding south.

She had always thought she would be stronger within the walls of Winterfell. After all - she was Sansa Stark, Wintefell was her home. Just the memory of it had been a solace in her loneliest moments. And yet, she had been happy in the Vale. She had felt alive there for the first time since her father died. She had felt safe as Alayne, as Littlefinger’s bastard.

And as with all things since the day she first left Winterfell, that happiness had been all too brief. Littlefinger had ruined it all. 

But without Littlefinger she might never have left King’s Landing. She could still be trapped under the heel of Cersei Lannister and her monstrous son, a helpless pawn in their sadistic games. 

She knew that without Littlefinger and his machinations, they never could have taken Winterfell back from the Boltons. She wouldn’t be back within the walls of Winterfell, Jon wouldn’t have been named their King. Without Littlefinger, Sansa would not have been wed to the Lord of the Vale.

Littlefinger had rescued her, protected her. He had been her father, her teacher.

He loved her too, in his own way. 

But what love Sansa might have known for the man had shriveled and died the day he murdered Sweetrobin.

Everything had been going according to his plans. Sansa had done everything Littlefinger had asked of her. 

Sansa had charmed, entranced, and bewitched Harry the Heir as Alayne Stone. She had found a way to make him love her as a lowly bastard. Then on their wedding day, she had washed the brown from her hair and worn her maiden’s cloak of white and grey. She had wed him as Sansa Stark and all the knights of the Vale had rallied around her. 

Then Sweetrobin had died. One of his shaking fits, she was told.

But Sansa knew better.

Just as she knew from the moment she bore her husband an heir, Harry would not be long for this world. If he had it his way, Littlefinger would find a way to get rid of him and then take his place, as her husband, as Defender of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie, and then one day, if all went according to plan, King of the North.

But neither Sansa nor Littlefinger had accounted for Jon. 

Littlefinger - who had a plan for everything - hadn’t anticipated Robb to have legitimised Jon and named him as his heir mere days before his death, nor for the lords (and ladies, in the case of Lady Maege Mormont and her spirited daughters) to declare Jon their king. 

Littlefinger had taught her well. She knew how his mind worked.

It was always supposed to be  _ her  _ birthright which was restored, not her bastard brother’s. Sansa had seen his face in the great hall when the bannermen were rallying behind Jon. She saw the sharpness in his eyes, and the pieces moving inside his head.

Sansa had always thought it would be so sweet to see Jon again, and then one day she did. 

Not long after she had wed Harry, mere days after Sweetrobin’s death, news reached her of visitors at the Gates of the Moon. 

She had emerged from the Eyrie, heartsick with grief, and there Jon had been, riding up the slope with Ghost by his side. For a long moment, she could only stare at the face of the only brother she had left, who she had not seen in such a long time. He had looked so different, and yet, somehow, he looked so much like her father she thought for a moment that she was seeing his ghost.

She had fallen into his arms and wept. But for the first time in so many years, they had been tears of joy.

“Sansa,” a hushed voice spoke from behind her. She stiffened at the familiar tone. “I wondered where you’d disappeared off to.”

“Lord Baelish.” Sansa summoned a warm smile as she turned to face the man. The formality bothered him. From the moment she had ceased to address him as  _ Father,  _ or, only ever in private,  _ Petyr,  _ his jaw would clench minutely whenever she called him  _ Lord Baelish.  _ It was the smallest victory over him she allowed.

“What are you doing out here? You must be cold, sweetling.” Littlefinger brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek. She steeled herself against the urge to recoil. She lowered her gaze and leaned into the touch a little, as if to seek comfort from it. That ought to please him.

“I only wanted to see Jon off. I’m worried about him.” She said with a wistful sigh, injecting some truth into her words. 

Littlefinger’s hand settled on her shoulder. He drew her as close as proprietary would allow. He was not her father anymore, after all.

“Winter has driven even little birds off of the roads,” Littlefinger said, his sharp eyes watching her face. She pursed her lips and kept her gaze fixed ahead.

“If they take a small fishing vessel from White Harbour, they should reach Dragonstone undisturbed,” Littlefinger told her. His thumb brushed against her neck, hidden from sight under her hair. “The island should be abandoned. My last reports indicated that Ser Garlan Tyrell successfully took back the castle from what was left of Stannis’ men, but sustained heavy injuries. He returned to Highgarden and, well. . . I don’t suppose the Tyrells have much reason to stay after what Cersei did.”

_ Margaery,  _ she thought. A frisson of pain laced through her.

Of all the terrible,  _ monstrous _ things Cersei Lannister had ever done. . . When Sansa had learned of Margaery’s death, she had locked herself in her rooms and wept. Lady Margaery’s friendship had been one of the few bright moments in her life in the capital. 

Margaery hadn’t deserved her fate. But then, she supposed, so very few did.

“It isn’t just Cersei we have to concern ourselves with,” Sansa said and shifted out of Littlefinger’s grasp. She gripped her elbows and began to walk along the parapet, trusting him to follow. “Winter is here.”

“And then there are the dragons.”

Sansa whipped around to face Littlefinger, her brows drawing in concern. She didn’t trust his offhanded tone.

“Dragons? But you said the Targaryen girl was still in Essos.”

“She was,” he hummed. “But I no longer have the connections I once did. For all I know, Daenerys Targaryen could be half-way across the Narrow Sea.”

Sansa shuddered at the thought. They couldn’t afford any more enemies. 

“My lady?” 

It took a moment for the words to register. It took longer still for Sansa to realise she was being addressed. 

“Yes?” She turned. Standing half-way up the steps was Brienne. 

Brienne, who shot a distrustful glance at Littlefinger, climbed the rest of the steps to stand by Sansa’s side.

Sansa had not been sure what to make of Lady Brienne of Tarth at first. The woman had ridden to the Eyrie alongside Jon after he had left the Night’s Watch. She had sworn her allegiance to her, as she had promised Sansa’s lady mother. With her, came the news that Ramsay Bolton had married Jeyne Poole, under the guise of her sister, Arya. Arya - who the woman had seen once, alive, and in the company of the Hound. 

Brienne was brave, steadfast, strong, and true. She was what all knights ought to be.

“Lord Hardying is looking for you, my lady.” Brienne told her.

“Thank you, Brienne.” Sansa cast one last look over her shoulder, across the snowy ground and the spot in the distance where Jon and his party had once been before she followed Brienne down the steps.

“Excuse me, Lord Baelish. We will continue this conversation later.” Sansa held onto the man’s gaze for a fraction too long, waiting for him to nod in response. She would hold him to that. He knew something about Daenerys Targaryen, more he was letting on.

The two women walked together across the snowy training yard, her protector keeping close. The area was crowded with a flurry of activity, men preparing for the wars to come.

“My lady,” Brienne leaned in close. “I have more of that. . . special brew, you asked for.”

Sansa paused for a fraction of a second before she nodded. She was conscious of Littlefinger on the battlements, safely out of earshot, but with his gaze fixed ever on her. The back of her neck prickled with the weight of his watchful eyes.

“For my headaches, yes,” Sansa said in response, ever wary of listening ears, not just Littlefinger’s.

Brienne subtly touched her side, letting her know she was keeping the package close. They both knew how dangerous the discovery of it in Sansa’s chambers would be.

Moon tea was not something Sansa had ever imagined she would need. Brienne had been aghast when she had first shared her desire for it. But bringing a child into the world came with too many risks. 

A child - an heir for her husband - was not something she could give him, not with the threat of Littlefinger and his machinations looming over her head.

“Thank you, Brienne.” She said sincerely, holding the other woman’s gaze. 

Brienne nodded, but whatever she was about to say in response died on her tongue at the sight of Sansa’s husband approaching.

Harry’s face broke into a warm smile at the sight of her.

“There you are!” Her husband exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you!”

Sansa found herself smiling back, in a manner that was neither forced nor feigned.

_ Love is a sweet poison, but it will kill you all the same. _

Of all the lessons Cersei Lannister had taught her, that one had stuck with her the most. Her words rushed back whenever Sansa found herself warming to her husband.

In the beginning, he had only wanted to bed her, as he had done in the past, with more girls than she liked to think of. He had been unkind to her at first, dismissive. But then they had danced and flirted, and he had called her clever and comely. When she had given her favour to another at the tourney shortly after, he had glowered at the knight bearing her blue ribbon and beaten him sorely in the joust.

He had a bastard daughter, with another on the way at that point, and he would’ve gotten a child on her without a second thought if she allowed it. So she had smiled, teased, and flirted coyly, but kept her distance. 

He had fallen in love with her as Alayne Stone. He alone, out of all her suitors, could say that he married her for her, and not her birthright. That thought alone made her think that perhaps, someday, she might come to love him too.

Sweet poison or no.

Harry caught her hand and lifted it to his lips.

“You seem very far away today, my lady. Is all well?” Warmth glittered in his pale blue eyes, making her want to press close instead of shy away when he lifted his hand to her cheek. “Is it one of your headaches?”

Sansa’s gaze shifted to Brienne for a fraction of a second, startled, before she schooled her expression.

“No,” she smiled. “Just worrying about Jon.”

“Ah,” Harry nodded. “Of course. Shall we go inside? The bannermen were hoping to speak with you.”

Sansa drew in a deep breath and steeled herself for the task ahead.

Jon might be gone, leaving her the last Stark in Winterfell, but she couldn’t afford to be weak. She needed to be strong. 

As lonely and as empty as Winterfell felt without her family, it was still her home, and she would not allow it to be lost again.

Not to the Boltons, not to Littlefinger, not even to winter itself.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i based a majority of this off the sansa excerpt from the winds of winter (and what i hope will happen in the books)
> 
> hopefully this wasn't too much exposition/info dumping, i just really wanted to make the world state clear before sticking mostly with rhaenys' POV.
> 
> hope y'all enjoyed this and thanks for reading!


End file.
